Darkness at Chancellorsville

by Ralph Peters

  Reno rode out in front of his line, struggling with himself. Tempted again to give the order to charge, career be damned.

  A shell fragment—from the one Reb shell that exploded—struck his horse’s eye, exploding meat and blood and bone.

  The animal dropped sideward.

  Reno went down with his mount. The beast pinned his right leg.

  “Get it off me,” he shouted. “Get the damned thing off me.”

  He didn’t feel pain. Not yet. Only desperation.

  Sergeants and nearby privates dismounted and rushed to coax up the horse, but the animal died, its bowels and bladder emptying. The weight on Reno’s leg felt as though it had doubled.

  “Are ye hit, Captain, sir? Are ye hit, man?” a flush-faced sergeant with lethal breath demanded.

  “Just get it off me. Get this goddamned thing off me.”

  Men tugged and pulled, their actions a grim comedy.

  Reno felt the weight begin to lift. Impatient, he yanked his leg with all his might.

  “God!” he howled. Something had torn in his groin. He clutched himself, pain-shocked. “God,” he called again, this time with a moan.

  All he could think was that they should have charged.

  * * *

  The Rebs abandoned their position a second time, riding off slowly.

  Pestered, Averell watched them go.

  “General,” Duffié tried again, “we are letting go a great chance. Permit me to take my brigade, at least. Only my brigade, if you—”

  “We should all go.” That was McIntosh. “Both brigades, every man. Hit them with everything. They’re whipped, we could crush them now.”

  “It would be a great victory,” the Frenchman added.

  It was already victory enough, Averell believed. He didn’t say it, didn’t try to explain, but this was just the victory he wanted. Perhaps they could do more, but he could not bring himself to take the chance, to throw away what this day had achieved: The cavalry of the Army of the Potomac had beaten off every charge of the proudest horsemen in Confederate service, Fitz’s Virginia Brigade. He knew that much from the prisoners taken, men bleeding and bewildered. He knew for certain that Fitz was on the field. Some Rebs insisted that Stuart was present, too. And both men had been beaten.

  He didn’t intend to give Fitz the least chance to get his own back. Averell’s men had learned what they could do—and they believed they could do still more, the evidence was here in these rambunctious colonels.

  But the day was fading and soon the light would go. He wanted his men back across the river by dark. Not that he looked forward to the swim. Christ, he did recall the cold of that water. Still not dried out, boots and stockings sopping.

  “That’s enough,” he told his brigade commanders. “Return to your men.”

  Scouts reported that the Rebs had halted a mile away, behind a minor stream called Carter’s Run.

  “Plenty of them just hopping along on foot,” a sergeant reported. “Lost them plenty of horses. Keep on dropping, too, sorry-looking horseflesh.”

  When the war began, the Confederate mounts had been splendid. And plentiful.

  When Averell didn’t reply, the sergeant added, “We could grab us up a pack of prisoners, sir.”

  Averell was tempted. Not just to gather in prisoners, but to order a grand attack, after all. But the impulse was fleeting. He had his plan and he intended to stick to it.

  Turning to his bugler, he ordered, “Sound the division recall.”

  * * *

  “By the rules of war, it does count as your victory,” Stuart consoled him. “The Yankees abandoned the field.”

  They rode through the twilight, horses stepping gingerly amid the generous trash left by the Yankees. The blue-bellies did enjoy lives of abundance.

  When Lee did not reply, Stuart tried another approach—he couldn’t have his key subordinate brooding.

  “We just didn’t have the numbers, Fitz.”

  The evening promised an overnight freeze.

  “Never needed numbers before.”

  Stuart forced a smile. “You know what Napoléon said. ‘God’s on the side of the big battalions,’ something like that.” Instantly, he regretted saying it. If the Lord truly sided with the big battalions, the South was doomed.

  Lee didn’t reply. His sulk approached rudeness. Stuart let it go.

  Bad day all around. Although it didn’t do to say it out loud. It counted as a near miracle that the Yankees had not come at them with all they had right at the end. Easy enough to pretty up his report, though, give Fitz credit, boost him a touch. After all, the Yankees did retire.

  As the pair of generals and their retinues neared the now worthless stone wall, Lieutenant Ransom rode in from the ford. He’d been on a scout, at Stuart’s suggestion and Lee’s sour command.

  “Yankees all run off?” Stuart asked, lightening his voice.

  “Yes, sir. All back across.” Man and horse panted. “Excepting some of their wounded, the bad ones. Yanks left two surgeons with them. Not far off, y’all want to parley some.”

  “I reckon the surgeons are busy,” Stuart allowed.

  The lieutenant turned to Lee. “One of the docs said this was left for you, sir.” He swung out a half-filled burlap sack.

  Lee took it and undid the string. Instantly, he smelled coffee, dark and lascivious.

  There was a note stuck in the bag as well.

  “Strike me up a match, Lieutenant,” Lee ordered. “Lean it over here.”

  The note read:

  Dear Fitz,

  Here’s your coffee. Here’s your visit.

  How’d you like it?

  Bill

  ONE

  Late morning, April 29

  Germanna Ford on the Rapidan River, Virginia

  Amid green leaves and birdsong, in a world scented by sawdust and quick water, Corporal Bill Smith watched and listened and waited, letting the officers have their way with the visitor. Didn’t do any good to interfere, but he had to know what the fuss was all about. The pair of captains—two men assigned to do the job of none—weren’t always inclined to share what little they knew, even with each other. And Smith had a bridge to build, since nobody with rank on his collar seemed able and willing to do it.

  The withered farmer shifted his weight from leg to leg, a parody of a soldier undone by the camp trots.

  “Yankees, I tell you,” the old man all but shouted. “Passels of ’em, crossing at Kelly’s Ford ever since last night.”

  In that disdainful voice of his, a voice bred to raise hackles, Captain Tyler said:

  “Sure now. We’re grateful for your concern, sir.” He touched his hat as if to tip it, but didn’t. “Any Yankees this side of the Rappahannock won’t be nothing but scouts wearing out their horses.”

  The old man flushed crimson. “Damn me, boy … I seen me enough of you folks and them’uns to tell a man on a horse from one afoot. And I’m telling you Yankee infantry come across, thick as the legions of Hell. And they’re headed this way, fast as cloven hooves can bring ’em along.” He reached out to calm his sweated mule, which had taken up his excitement, then turned back to the captain with fresh fierceness. “You been warned, boy. Be it on your head. You done been warned.”

  “Had any Yankees crossed that river in force, we would’ve had word.” Tyler’s voice cut, managing to imply not only that the farmer was a fool, but that he might have made his breakfast of applejack.

  To soften the sting of Tyler’s tone, his fellow captain—another of the army’s abundance of Smiths—told the old man, “Warning taken, sir. Much obliged. We’ll keep us a proper lookout, thank you kindly.”

  Rope-muscle forearms quivering, the farmer all but spit. “You don’t believe me neither, sonny. Figure me for an old fool.” He shook a head carved by decades of sun and wind. “Ain’t none so blind as them what will not see.”

  The farmer jacked himself back into his saddle. His mule still heaved. “Reckon I’ll go on
home and see if the Yankees et what little was left.” He cast a hard look at the pair of captains. “And thank you for your fine defense of Virginia.”

  * * *

  Corporal Smith didn’t share the disinterest of the officers. Mannerly rivals one to the other, Tyler of his scorned 12th Virginia and Captain Smith of the 41st had been detailed because they could best be spared by their regiments. The party had been dispatched the week before, at the Cavalry Corps’ request, two understrength companies, along with a handful of carpenters and pioneers entrusted to Smith and his stripes, and a shiftless pack of Posey’s Mississippians. A hundred and forty heads when the roll was called, their task was to erect a new bridge on the foundations of one destroyed in the last year’s campaigning. The captains treated the mission as a lark, a chance to call at neighboring plantations, and even the sergeants weren’t much minded to help, so the serious doings had fallen to Smith and his boys.

  And Corporal Bill Smith didn’t trust the Yankees. He’d learned in fights behind the schoolyard privy not to trust man or boy he couldn’t see plain to his front. He knew the country folk around these parts, too, he’d studied them in his ranging. They weren’t much given to fits like town folk were. That old farmer had seen enough of something to launch him ten hard-rump miles atop a mule.

  Smith nodded at the captains, not quite saluting, and turned back to his task. Stuart’s staff had sworn to provide the plans and guide the construction, but Captain Collins, the Cavalry Corps’ engineer, had contented himself with pointing out the plain-to-see old foundations before taking himself off to Culpeper again.

  That was what came of handing over infantrymen to the cavalry: nothing good, ever.

  Left to themselves with inadequate tools, Smith’s men had peeled off crusted shirts and turned the run-down mill on the south bank into their workshop as well as a headquarters, a laboring few as the many watched. Now, at last, the stringers were placed or readied, the final planks trimmed, and the first two spans completed from the north bank, almost a wonder. He’d had to bring down the full weight of his not-much-of-a-rank to get even the best men to work with vigor, though, since the ford was a pleasant refuge, far from the usual duties, with apple and peach blossoms prettying the world and the river an invitation to bare-ass tomfoolery as men soaked off layers of filth or soothed their itches.

  An odd bunch they were, his fellow Virginians, especially the Southsiders: They’d fight like demons, but faced with manual labor they grew indolent, an attitude Smith himself had never adopted. Couldn’t afford to, not like those white-glove boys. Born Southside himself, he’d gone west, to Nashville, for new chances and honest work, returning only when the war came calling.

  The only thing that had made the soldiers move with manly speed had been the abrupt discovery of a wasps’ nest.

  Mindful folk contended that the South—the true South—began below the James, and Bill Smith believed they were right.

  Of course, the Mississippians were far worse, prideful and front-porch lazy to a man. Fight a duel before they’d pick up a shovel. And not just the gentlemen. As soon kill a slightful cousin as a Yankee.

  “Carey, Nelson,” the corporal barked at a pair working on the third span, “pull that plank back up and lay it right. Darkies would do a better job than that.”

  Bare-chested and scarred and Irish as Saturday sin, Private Carey teased him back: “Ain’t none of your black bucks left you, Corporal dearie. They’re all traipsed off up north to Yankee heaven.”

  He grinned with amber teeth.

  * * *

  “Wonder if I shouldn’t take ten or twelve men and have a look,” Captain James Smith, Jr., told his rival company commander. “Push out two, three miles along the road. Just to be certain.”

  “Might not be unwise,” Captain Tyler agreed.

  “Could be a raid.”

  “Reckon that’s possible.” Tyler put on an among-us-officers smile. “Corporal Smith won’t be happy, you take any men away from his precious work, though. Best holler back to the mill and roust some do-nothings.”

  Captain Smith waved off the concern. “Take too long. Besides, Billy Smith thinks all officers walk on water. He won’t fuss.”

  * * *

  Noon, and the warmth had thickened, drawing the last winter’s chill from a soldier’s bones. Corporal Smith had no intention of letting the work detail rest, though. Hadn’t earned their bacon. They could curse him all they wanted, complaint was a soldier’s right. But the bridge was going to be finished sooner, not later.

  He’d been relieved when Captain Smith drew off ten men for a picket. That farmer. Couldn’t get the fellow out of his head. That’s all they’d need, to get surprised by a multitude of Yankees.

  He decided to shuttle his crew back to the south bank a few at a time, to take up their arms and come back again. Wouldn’t pay to leave his best men defenseless and caught on the wrong side of the river. If some Yankee patrol with high ambitions did try to spring a surprise, his men could see them off, Smith reckoned, as long as they had their rifles close to hand. But hammers and saws wouldn’t do.

  He didn’t intend to raise the matter with Captain Tyler. Just do everything quiet-like. If Tyler noticed and got up on his high horse, he could say, “Sir, I tried to do what I knew you’d do, have the boys ready. Been studying on your lessons, trying to learn some.”

  Tyler would gobble that up like cherry pie.

  Only officer Smith much cared for was Little Billy Mahone, a man hard enough to regulate Southsiders. Serving under Little Billy might not be the safest spot in a war, but it was satisfying.

  The brigade commander wasn’t anywhere close, though. And trouble of some dimension was headed their way, if Smith was a judge. Maybe not today, maybe that farmer had been seeing spooks, after all, but the weather had turned at last and that meant trouble. Despite on-and-off rain, the roads were firm enough to carry artillery. The Yankees wouldn’t sit still, no matter the licking they’d taken at Fredericksburg. Memories didn’t stretch that far in a war.

  Just more and more of the blue-bellies, that was the curse, as if those Northern mills could turn out men as easy as they made woolens. He’d watched their numbers swell all winter, across the Rappahannock, Yankee soldiers thickened by fine greatcoats. While his lean brethren shivered.

  The corporal noted that Captain Tyler had lingered out in the road, staring after the vanished detail, arms folded and pondering.

  An officer with nothing to do was a danger to man and beast. Smith decided to entertain the captain before Tyler turned his attention to the bridge and fuddled the doings.

  As the corporal neared, the captain said, “Ah, Smith! We making progress? Looks like it, to my untutored eye.”

  There was something about Tyler that just made a fellow want to knock him down. But Smith only nodded. “Right fine progress, Captain. Done tomorrow, Lord willing.”

  Tyler’s eyes took on a strained look that any corporal could read: The captain was in search of a question that would demonstrate concern and show authority.

  “The bridge … it will bear the weight of artillery, Corporal Smith?”

  “Wouldn’t drag siege guns across it, sir. But she’ll bear up under horse artillery well enough.”

  “That’s all that’s been asked.” Tyler squared his shoulders. “You’re to be commended.”

  Smith knew exactly who would be commended, if things went well. But he nodded his thanks.

  A horseman emerged from a far grove at a gallop.

  “That’s not Jimmy Smith,” Tyler declared.

  No, it wasn’t Captain Smith returning, but someone in a gray coat who’d taken enough of a fright to ruin his horse. Coming on as if pursued by an army of ghostly riders. In naked daylight.

  The fugitive was a junior engineer from Stuart’s staff, Lieutenant Price, whom the men had renamed “Priceless.” Every few days he rode out to find a flaw in the bridge’s construction.

  Now the lad was transformed. Hat
lost, coat blackened by sweat and flesh scared hot, the lieutenant took to shouting like a fool.

  “Yankees! Yankees coming! Yankees!”

  His horse bled at the flanks. Green foam spattered Smith and doused the captain.

  “Calm down, Price,” Tyler ordered. “And gentle that horse, for God’s sake.”

  “Yankees…”

  “Talk sense. Cavalry? Infantry? How many?”

  Smith held out his canteen. Price gulped water and choked, but calmed himself.

  “Cavalry, sir. A right plenty.”

  Smith gestured for the lieutenant to hand back the canteen: A good canteen was ever harder to come by. Price took another swallow and gave it over.

  Tyler looked at Smith but questioned himself. “How the devil did they…” He turned again to the lieutenant. “Didn’t you see Captain Smith? He—”

  “Didn’t see nobody, sir. ’Least, nobody in gray.”

  Faced by the prospect of combat, the captain woke to his purpose. The Virginia gentry might not care to work but loved to fight. Tyler pivoted sharply, barking orders for the work crew to stop and retrieve their arms.

  Smith didn’t tell him the order had been given, didn’t want to break the spell of command. It was time to let Tyler earn his pay. If a paymaster ever showed up.

  Ignoring the lieutenant now, the captain wheeled on Smith. “I’m going back over to set up a proper defense. You deploy the work crew around the bridge, keep any raiders from torching it. When they’re set in, come over yourself. I want you by me.”

  “Might want to send someone else out to have a look, sir. In case Captain Smith…”

  Tyler nodded, with no more fuss about rank. “Robertson’s the best man on a horse.”

  The captain strode off toward the rowboat, snapping orders as he passed the men. Smith looked up at the still-mounted lieutenant.

  “I was you, sir, I’d make my way on back to General Stuart, report what you’ve seen.”

  “I should stay and fight,” the boy insisted.